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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24800884">Little Grey.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsmccomplicated/pseuds/itsmccomplicated'>itsmccomplicated</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Grey's Anatomy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Childhood Memories, Coming of Age, Drabble Collection, F/M, Fluff, Headcanon, Slice of Life</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:46:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,989</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24800884</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsmccomplicated/pseuds/itsmccomplicated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The life and times of Lexie Grey.</p><p>(The twenty-fourth of August Nineteen Eighty-Four to the ninth of May Two Thousand Twelve.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jackson Avery/Lexie Grey, Lexie Grey &amp; Meredith Grey, Lexie Grey/Alex Karev, Lexie Grey/George O'Malley, Lexie Grey/Mark Sloan, Thatcher Grey/Susan Grey</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>76</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Introduction.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The term is long past over, and he’s doing nothing but jotting down ideas for some paper or another. (Lately, everything has been meant only to meet quotas, nothing at all inspired). But he has a visitor, and he recognizes her immediately when she walks into his office. The woman who was in the bar a few weeks - no, maybe a month or two - earlier, all permed blonde hair and warm brown eyes and sweet smile. Even without words, she let you know that yes, she is most definitely an elementary school teacher and yes, she is most definitely from the midwest and yes, she is most definitely flirting with <em>him</em>, of all people. Except for today, she is not flirting. She is not smiling, and her eyes aren’t as warm.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She looks scared.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Susan Connelly?” He asks as if this could possibly be anybody else. He knows better. He asks nonetheless.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Thatcher Grey,” she half-laughs. The corners of her mouth are upturned for maybe five seconds before she raises a nervous eyebrow. “You remember, then.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Of course I remember. How did you…” he searches for words. “How did you find me?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“There aren’t many people named Thatcher in Seattle. You also said you were a professor, and, well, there are even fewer professors named Thatcher in Seattle. So I narrowed it down.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why did you…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She cuts him off. “I’m pregnant.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>His jaw hits the floor.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She begins to ramble. “I may have had a one-night stand with you, but I am <em>not</em> a total whore. Hell, I haven’t slept with anyone else since, well, a long time ago. I don’t mean to hold you responsible or anything. We were <em>very</em> drunk, and I’m a strong woman and blah blah blah. I just figured you’d want to…”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m in.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He smiles like a goon. “I’m in.” </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Six Hours.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s been a busy day for their new little family. Susan is asleep, and the sun has long since joined her. The TV plays songs with the volume turned most of the way down. Nurses occasionally poke their heads in, ask how everyone is, offer snacks and pillows. And for the first time in years, Thatcher feels safe in Seattle Grace Hospital. He holds their baby girl, at peace with the world.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>How he ended up here, he isn’t sure. Having found two women to love him, and maybe even fill the void eating away at his heart.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Susan, he has realized, is even greater than he’d first thought. She loves the strangest things, like swimming in the bay when the water’s still freezing, driving out to nowhere in the middle of the night, and standing in the rain, sticking out her tongue to catch the droplets like she’s eight years old. And, even though she won’t say it, she loves him too. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She loves him, in all his deeply boring, damaged glory.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He looks down at their daughter in awe. She has the same nose as her mother, and maybe the same eyes if they turn out brown.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The pink sheet of cardstock with curlicue designs at the end of the crib declares she’s a girl, born on this the twenty-fourth of August Nineteen Eighty-Four. It says also that it’s been decided: her name is Alexandra Caroline Grey.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Four Days.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She’s been alive for less than a week, and is already being bombarded by sights and sounds and smells of places and people and things she could never have imagined. There is a world, she has found, outside of Seattle Grace Hospital, and it is all exciting and new and unexplored.</p><p> </p><p>She is strapped into a cushy car seat, where she is distracted by two objects. One is the little giraffe toy she was first given earlier that morning, and the other is a small mirror hanging above her head. She notices someone inside, watching her. </p><p> </p><p>The vehicle begins to move, while faint music plays from the stereo. The car is old and hesitant, rattling and hissing at nothing in particular as it continues down the road and onto the freeway.</p><p> </p><p>She is startled and begins to cry when the car slams on its brakes, and her mother turns to look at her father disapprovingly. “There’s a baby in the back seat,” Susan sighs, a little angry, before looking over her shoulder at her daughter and whispering. “Shh, it’s okay.” She pauses in her attempts to soothe the baby to add on, “Hear that whining? She gets that from you. Only, this girl was actually born last week.” </p><p> </p><p>(“I think you joke like that because you love me,” Thatcher comments, a smug grin creeping across his face. “Just admit that I’m irresistible.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re not irresistible. You are quite the opposite of irresistible. You spill your coffee all over the kitchen counter. You put your feet up on the table. You leave your dirty underwear on the bathroom floor. And you snore. I think you forget you don’t actually live with me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t actually live with you yet. Didn’t we say we would move in together after the baby was born?”</p><p> </p><p>A slight red colour washes over Susan’s cheeks. “We never said that.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, we did. You’re blushing!”)</p><p> </p><p>Not particularly caring about the conversation between her parents, Lexie has immersed herself in the giraffe, and is startled for the second time in ten minutes when it squeaks upon being bitten. This time she doesn’t cry, but scowls at the toy, which leads her mother to chuckle and once again compare the baby girl to her father. The car is slowing down when she calls, “Lexie, we’re home!”</p><p> </p><p>They have just pulled into the driveway of 3321 North 47th Street when Susan turns to Thatcher and says, “We’re going to have one hell of an adventure with this one, aren’t we?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Five Months Thirteen Days.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lexie has a big sister. Her dad has shown her mother pictures, he has one in his wallet, and one sits on his desk at work. He didn’t just have one daughter, there was another. The older almost seven now, living in Boston with her mother.</p><p> </p><p>Susan watches her baby’s father racking his brain, trying to find the right words for a birthday card. “What can I even say to her?” He asks, eyes watering.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t know what to tell him, much less <em>how</em> to tell him. They have their own baby upstairs, and their own budding relationship. She doesn’t want to admit it, but she’s scared to get involved with all she’s been told about her boyfriend’s <em>(?)</em> old life. An old life he’s been practically forced to abandon. Perhaps their new life would be better if the old one stayed abandoned?</p><p> </p><p>There’s a twinge of guilt as she tells him, “I don’t know that there’s anything you <em>can</em> say.”</p><p> </p><p>He puts down the pen and leaves the card face down on the desk. “I have you and Lexie,” he says to Susan, a small smile on his face. “And maybe you two are all I need, right?”</p><p> </p><p>More guilt. “Yeah. Maybe we’re all you need.”</p><p> </p><p>She hopes it doesn’t eat her alive, but knows it will. </p><p> </p><p>(Lexie never knew about her sister.)</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. One Year.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The night of Lexie’s first birthday is spent in the emergency room. She breaks out in hives after digging into her first bite of cake, and terrified parents rush her in without a second thought.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It was probably the dairy or the eggs,” the doctor tells them. “The good news is that these allergies are typically outgrown. You might want to take her to an immunologist, just to be safe. But she’s responding well to the epinephrine, so you’re good to go. Don’t hesitate to bring her back if anything changes, though.” As he walks out, he taps her on the foot. “Happy birthday, little miss!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The whole family is happy to be out of the hospital. Walking through the parking lot, an exhausted Lexie cries, and Susan holds her close. “Oh, my Lexie girl. It’s okay.” She kisses her on the forehead and looks to her fiancé, who is smiling at them both, clicking the keys over and over trying to find their car. She laughs at him, winks.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>An alarm goes off on the other end of the lot. This scares Lexie, who begins to whine again, burying her face in her mother’s shoulder.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There is the initial shrillness, and then there is a sudden lull, as Susan rocks her baby. “It’s okay. I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The world has gone still. She can’t believe it’s been a year.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“As long as I live.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. One Year Thirteen Days.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Susan was born in Columbia, South Carolina. She was in the middle, with two older sisters and two younger brothers. At the age of six, she and her family had packed up everything and moved across the country, from the Deep South to a suburb of Minneapolis. The transition was hard, but she clung to her siblings, and with their framework of support found her footing in what felt like another world.</p><p> </p><p>Thatcher was born and raised in Boston. He grew up with an older sister who he thought was the smartest person in the entire world. He admired everything she did. She seemed to be gifted at everything she tried. She was witty and caring and bright. She always had the answer, when he couldn’t even understand the question. And she loved learning about the world, so he did, too. They’d both grown up to be anthropologists.</p><p> </p><p>So needless to say, both of Lexie’s parents figure she’ll need a sibling.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. One Year Nine Months Twenty Days.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She has a little sister.</p><p> </p><p>Something about the world is different now, and although she’s not even two years old, Lexie can feel it. There is a quiet magic in her parents’ faces, in their hushed voices, and in the little one they’re holding who she’s never seen before.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re a big sister, Lexie,” her mother tells her. Her father hoists her up to sit on the bed, to see the baby up close - there’s a little pink hat on her head, and she opens her eyes for a second to take in the new visitor before closing them again.</p><p> </p><p>Thatcher puts his hand on Lexie’s shoulder. “Her name is Molly,” he tells her.</p><p> </p><p>“Molly.” She says the word a few times.</p><p> </p><p>“Testing it out?”</p><p> </p><p>She nods. “Mm-hm.”</p><p> </p><p>Her parents chuckle.</p><p> </p><p>“Sister.”</p><p> </p><p>A smile from her mother. “What do you think?”</p><p> </p><p>She pauses. “I love her!”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Two Years Four Months One Day.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Christmas morning, 1986.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s the first year Lexie’s old enough to really understand what Christmas is, and she’s managed to wake her parents at five o’clock to open presents and confirm that yes, in fact, Santa Claus <em>did</em> eat the cookies she’d left out the night before.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Molly is laying on the floor beside Lexie, enamoured with the little giraffe her big sister got her. (It’s a regift, but she’ll never have to know).</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Susan’s on the ground with her daughters, and Thatcher sits on the couch holding a video camera. There’s one present left under the tree, with Lexie’s name on it. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Lexie, there’s one left for you!” Susan points to the bag hiding behind a small mountain of gift wrap. She grabs the gift and hands it to the toddler, who is practically bouncing up and down at the prospect of yet another new toy. Lexie immediately tears through the tissue paper, and inside is a little plastic doctor’s kit.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What’s that, Lexie?” Her mother asks.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It’s a doctor set!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, nice! Who’s that from?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The two-year-old reads the little tag on the gift bag - which never fails to make her mother smile. “Grandma-Grandpa!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Can you say thank you, Grandma and Grandpa?” Susan requests, pointing to the video camera.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lexie knows the drill. She turns to the camera and shouts, “Thank you Grandma-Grandpa!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Susan can barely begin putting the wrap into the garbage pile before Lexie has opened the box and is pulling out each of the toys.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Thatcher shoots his fiancée a look.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Do you like that one, Lexie?” Susan asks her daughter. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She’s already got the little stethoscope in her ears, pretending to listen to her baby sister’s heart. “Yeah!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Susan looks to the recording one last time. “Looks like we’ve got a little doctor!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Thatcher turns the camera off.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Five Years Eleven Months Eleven Days.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s the hottest day yet this summer, and Lexie is tugging with frustration at the itchy layers of her dress. Even air conditioning can only do so much in this hundred-degree heat. Her parents have had to move their wedding inside, and she’s more than ready to get her flower girl duties over with and change out of this dress that’s boiling her. Standing beside her, Molly appears much more subdued by the four separate underskirts, although they’re both starting to get cranky. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s alright though, because their mother is coming out of the dressing room, and she looks like a princess.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lexie runs over to her - little sister trailing behind - and practically strangles Susan in a hug.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Wow! You look so pretty!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Like Ariel!” The youngest girl adds. (Of course the strawberry blonde one had fallen in love with <em>The Little Mermaid</em>). </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Susan’s eyes water, and she smiles at her daughters with a pang in her chest. “Thank you,” she chokes out, trying her best not to cry. Her girls will only be little for so long, she knows. Lexie is already so smart, and Molly just can’t wait to grow up. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You know,” she says, biting the inside of her cheek. “One day, you’re going to get married too. And you’ll be so happy. And your dad will walk you down the aisle, and I’ll be sitting right there, thinking about this moment, right now. When you were my little flower girls.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Eight hours later, it’s finally cooled down. It must be one in the morning, though, and Lexie’s falling asleep in her father’s lap, her sister in their mother’s. Everyone else is somehow still awake. She notices the air smells like the drinks which make adults act funny, and while the party is too tired to keep dancing, they’re singing as loud as ever. Her mother’s relatives are filling the room with Irish folk songs, and her father’s side of the family is trying their best to keep up. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She’s surrounded by more happiness than ever.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She can’t wait for her own wedding.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Seven Years.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Her fingers are crossed behind her back as she walks home from her summer dance class.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She’s been dropping hints for months now, leaving little notes in kitchen drawers and talking with Molly loud enough that her parents could certainly hear.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It’s her seventh birthday, and all she wants is a surprise party.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lexie fumbles through her (Lisa Frank) dance bag for the house key. There is a moment of hesitation before she turns it in the lock since she knows that if there’s nobody waiting for her behind couches in the living room when she walks in, the disappointment will be immeasurable. “It’s fine,” she says aloud to herself. “I don’t care.” She takes a deep breath and opens the door.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She can hear Molly giggling. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Surprise!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her parents, little sister, and friends all jump out from behind the couch. She pretends to be shocked, of course. Her parents insisted that knowing (or speculating too hard) would ruin the experience. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lexie didn’t find that to be the case, though. She had a ball.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>At the end of the night, after her friends have gone home, she lies in the pile of wrapping paper she’s made in the corner of the living room. She’s eaten a near lethal dose of peanut butter ice cream cake, and is exhausted from extremely competitive piñata hitting and at least ten rounds of pin the tail on the donkey. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Did you have a good day?” Susan asks, making her way over with the broom to collect loose Cheetos and party blowers.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“It was the best birthday ever!”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Eight Years Fifteen Days.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As of this morning, Lexie Grey is in fourth grade. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She’s terrified.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Of course she wants to be smart - being smart means being a doctor, after all, and she’s never wanted to be anything else. But when her second grade teacher said she should be bumped up to be with older kids (even if it was going to benefit her), she was scared. Instantly.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The kids in the grade ahead are taller than she is. They get to start higher up in Four Square. One of the girls even has a bra from Limited Too. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>So sure, Lexie’s smart. But she also just turned eight two weeks ago, and she’s worried she might get eaten alive. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her new teacher greets her at the doorway and shows her where to hang up her sweater. “You’re going to do great,” he tells her. She smiles like she believes him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She sheepishly makes her way to the table where she’s been told she should sit. A couple of students are already there, showing off their notebooks. They turn to look at her when she walks over, and one boy asks, “Weren’t you in second grade last year?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lexie swallows the lump in her throat. “Yeah.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>She’s surprised by his reaction. “You must be smart, then!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Um, I guess.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“That’s cool. You’re gonna sit with us?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She puts down her bag and breathes a sigh of relief. A girl leans in from across the table and asks, “Do you like New Kids on the Block?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Nine Years Nine Months Sixteen Days.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first time a boy calls her beautiful, she’s standing backstage before her dance recital. </p><p> </p><p>She always thought that Michael was cute. The two would stand together during practice, laughing and joking until their coach would separate them. He had shaggy brown hair that almost covered his eyes, and he was tall enough that Lexie had to crane her neck to meet his eyes when they were close enough. And she liked his eyes, too. Cute, cute, cute.</p><p> </p><p>But today is different. <em>It must feel like this</em>, she thinks, <em>when the other person thinks you’re cute, too. Beautiful, even. </em></p><p> </p><p>At the end of the evening, she’s bouncing up and down when she runs out from backstage to meet her family, holding sweaty jazz shoes and a mountain of feelings. Molly looks like she’d rather be in bed, but her parents are beaming with pride. “You did so good,” her dad says, pulling her into a hug. Her mom ruffles her hair and hands her a bouquet wrapped in newspaper.</p><p> </p><p>Out of the corner of her eye, Lexie spots Michael staring. She pretends she has to go to the washroom and heads over to talk to him, heartbeat in her ears. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey,” he says, nudging her shoulder with his, careful not to make her drop anything. “I wanna ask you something.”</p><p> </p><p>Her eyes widen. “Okay…”</p><p> </p><p>He gulps. “Do you want to go to the dance with me? After graduation?” </p><p> </p><p>A dorky smile makes its way across her face. “Of course!” She bounces onto her toes and kisses him on the cheek. “I have to go now. But I’ll call you tomorrow night, okay? At seven?”</p><p> </p><p>He nods, with his cheeks flaming red.</p><p> </p><p>Lexie skips back towards her family, a buzz in her head. He likes her… for real!</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Ten Years Fifteen Days.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Middle school is proving to be a bit rougher than Lexie anticipated. </p><p> </p><p>It’s only the third day, and she’s gotten lost five times - apparently, her photographic memory doesn’t extend to navigation. She fell down the stairs between science and history yesterday, skidding her knees in front of <em>everyone</em>. And worst of all, Michael isn’t even talking to her anymore.</p><p> </p><p>Sitting in math class, her thoughts wander off. If only she could go back to the fifth grade. Everything was simpler back then. She remembers the dress she wore to her graduation. It doesn’t fit anymore, but she’s too sentimental to give it to Molly just yet. She remembers drinking a little too much Hawaiian Punch that day as well. And she remembers getting to slow dance with Michael, which makes her eyes water.</p><p> </p><p>Her teacher marching through the room wakes her up. A familiar booklet of papers is slapped onto her desk, face-down. The skills assessment. Her heartbeat is suddenly thrumming in her ears.</p><p> </p><p>The boy beside her picks his up and sighs. “I only got sixty percent? No way. How did you do?”</p><p> </p><p>She pulls up the corner of her test, holding her breath. </p><p> </p><p>There it is, in bright red marker on the front page. Next to a shiny little smiley face sticker. One-hundred percent.</p><p> </p><p>It suddenly seems like everything is going to be fine.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Ten Years One Month Eight Days.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I think you would be a good cheerleader,” her friend Jennifer tells her one day as they’re walking home from school.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lexie doesn’t really know what this means. Sure, she understands the basis of what a cheerleader is - she attends an American public school, after all - but she doesn’t quite get what would make her, out of everyone, a <em>good</em> cheerleader. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>So of course, the rational response is, “Why?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jennifer smiles. “You’re tall.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lexie is 5’3, which <em>is</em> tall for her age all things considered. She’s not gigantic or anything, but she’s always stood in the middle row for class pictures.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“That’s why I should be a cheerleader?” She asks.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah. And you’re a dancer. And you’re pretty."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I mean… thanks.” Lexie smiles. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>A bright yellow flyer from Jennifer’s backpack is thrown into Lexie’s hands. “Tryouts are coming up. They’re next week. I think you should come with me. You know, unless you don’t want to. But the practices are all after school, so it won’t interfere with your mathletes, nerd.” Jennifer laughs and bumps into Lexie.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lexie rolls her eyes, trying to hide the grin on her face. “I’ll let you know.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A squeal erupts from Jennifer, and she jumps up and down. “We’re gonna be the best cheerleaders ever!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The list of who made the team goes up a week after tryouts. Lexie doesn’t want to seem to eager, but can’t resist the urge to run downstairs - to stand in front of the bulletin board outside the gym and scan for her name. When she gets there, Jennifer says they’ve made it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Alphabetical by first?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She’s right at the top.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Ten Years One Month Twenty-Three Days.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Her first asthma attack coincides with her first cheer performance. She’s in the car eating ice cream with her sister when she notices she’s breathing a little funny. Her first instinct is to think she’s having an allergic reaction, which is more annoying than scary because it means she’ll have to use her EpiPen (which hurts) and won’t be able to eat Dairy Queen Oreo Blizzards anymore (which is a bummer).</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Is there egg in this?” She shouts up to the front seat, which sends her parents immediately into a panic.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Why? Are you okay?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah, I’m just-“ she coughs. “-it’s kind of hard to breathe.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, my God,” her mother gasps like Lexie’s died in the backseat (like she doesn’t teach second graders who have allergic reactions all the time, like Lexie’s never had an allergic reaction before). “Okay. Let’s go to the hospital then.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lexie sighs and opens the front pocket of her backpack as her dad turns the car around.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She doesn’t mind going to the emergency room. She’s been a couple of times before (that she can remember) - once when she sprained her ankle during ballet class, another time for an acute anxiety attack, again when she accidentally ate gummies which didn’t just look like eggs but also contained them, and again when she got the flu and needed to get an IV. She likes having an excuse for her mom to stroke her hair, and she likes sitting on the beds with the curtains open and watching the doctors and nurses rush around - treating patients, doing minor procedures. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Unfortunately when you come into the ER saying you’re about thirty minutes away from anaphylactic shock, you don’t have a lot of time to just sit there and peoplewatch. Yet another needle is stabbed into her - although this time it’s in her arm which she’s thankful for since she now has a very sore thigh - immediately after she enters the room. She then gets taken up to the pediatric ward for observation. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So I understand this has happened before?” She’s asked by the doctor, a third-year emergency medicine resident (she asked).</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Yeah.” She was still struggling to breathe. “Once when I was a baby.” She has to take a break, and she notices the doctor getting paged by someone. “Then again when I was in fourth grade. I’m allergic to eggs.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I understand. I’m allergic to peanuts,” the doctor says. His pager beeps again. “Hey, I don’t want you to worry, but I’m going to get someone to come take a look at your lungs upstairs. Just to make sure everything’s in working order.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lexie coughs. “Yeah, okay.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The pulmonologist is already there when they get up to her room. “She’s got quite the wheeze,” the resident says. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The older doctor pulls out a stethoscope. “I heard you’re a cheerleader,” he says.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lexie nods in response.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Deep breath in?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She tries, but just ends up causing a coughing fit.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Asthma,” he says to the resident. He pulls out a prescription pad and quickly scribbles something down.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lexie suddenly panics. “Asthma? How? Don’t they usually catch that in little kids?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Usually. But yours is probably mild and you just got overexerted. I’m gonna write you a prescription for some medication that’ll help you breathe if this ever happens again, okay?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“So I can still do cheer?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You’ll be able to talk more about that with your family doctor, but it’s not a problem for most kids with asthma. And we’ll get you a test to make sure it <em>is</em> asthma.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“How do I tell if I’m having an allergic reaction instead though?” She hiccups. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He gestures to his arm. “So, when you’re having an allergic reaction, you’ll usually get a bunch of little red bumps on your skin. But that doesn’t happen with an asthma attack. So just watch out for that.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Okay.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Good luck with the cheer season! And try not to worry.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As the pulmonologist leaves the room, Lexie realizes she has a question.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Hey!” <em>Cough</em>. “If you don’t mind me asking… where did you go to medical school?”</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Twelve Years Five Months Seven Days.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When her math teacher pulls her aside one Friday after class, for a minute she's worried he's going to accuse her of having cheated on the systems of equations test last week. She was seriously just looking at the clock; she had to get out of school quickly for her dentist appointment at 4:00.</p><p> </p><p>"Do you know why I wanted to talk to you?" He asks, sitting down at his desk.</p><p> </p><p>She swallows the lump in her throat. "Maybe?"</p><p> </p><p>He smiles, and she feels instant relief. <em>No accusations</em>. "It's because you have ninety-eight percent in my class. I'm thinking that we should see about getting you into geometry next year, or maybe even algebra two, depending on how ready you think you are."</p><p> </p><p>She has to pause and process this for a second. "Seriously?"</p><p> </p><p>"Seriously. You're a great student, Lexie. You're going to go far."</p><p> </p><p>She can't stop herself from beaming.</p><p> </p><p>"Do you know what you want to do after high school?"</p><p> </p><p>Lexie nods. "I want to go to medical school. I know I have to take other courses first, though, so I might get a math degree."</p><p> </p><p>He pats her on the back. "Ah, yes. of course. I know of a really great summer program for junior high and high school students that runs out of Seattle Grace. I can get you an application form if you want."</p><p> </p><p>She nods again, still grinning. "That would be great! thank you!"</p><p> </p><p>He grabs her test from the top of the pile on his desk and hands it to her. "By the way, you got one hundred percent. Have a good weekend!"</p><p> </p><p>"You too!"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Twelve Years Eleven Months Twenty-Nine Days.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Cheerleading tryouts for the high school team happen during the second-last week of August. She and Jennifer go together, of course. They walk down North 45th to the bus, their hair tied up in scrunchies. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“You really think we’ll make the team?” Lexie asks. She’d brought a packed lunch, but she’s so nervous that she’s already eaten half of it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Positive.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Because two thousand students go to Roosevelt, and there are only twenty spots on the team, so even if only one in fifty wants to be a cheerleader-“</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jennifer cuts her off. “Lexie. You need to stop worrying. All that’s gonna do is make you freak out and that’s not gonna do anyone any good.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lexie shoves the wrapper of her granola bar into one of her hoodie pockets. “Okay.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As they walk up to the bus station, Jennifer tries to change the subject. “What are you doing for your birthday?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m going shopping with my mom in Vancouver. But do you really think that we’re gonna-“</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, my God! Lexie!” Jennifer laughs. “Shut up!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lexie’s mom picks her up at the end of the day. The back of the van is filled with educational posters and school supplies, and despite the bags under her eyes from spending the entire day setting up a second-grade classroom, she’s eager to find out how her daughter’s tryouts went.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“How did it go?” She asks as Lexie jumps into the passenger seat. It takes her a moment to recognize the wheezing.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I- forgot my- inhaler.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Susan steps on the gas. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Thirteen Years Fifteen Days.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She’s the youngest person in her algebra two class by a lot more than she thought she’d be. She walks into a room full of juniors and seniors and feels the same way she did five years ago, entering a fourth-grade classroom full of kids who were already hitting puberty. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It doesn’t help that she doesn’t see anyone from cheer tryouts. She was relying on being able to walk up to someone she’d seen doing backbends in August and act like they were already friends. (It couldn’t be that hard… it wasn’t like she’d been super obvious about the fact she was having an asthma attack in front of everyone, right?)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The teacher greets her when she sits down at the desk in front of him. “Lexie!” He says with a grin. “Mr. Forrest was absolutely insistent that you get into this class. Says you’re a bit of a prodigy. I’m excited to see what you can do. I’m Mr. Reyes.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Nice to meet you.” Lexie is taken aback. <em>A prodigy? Lucky, maybe, with her photographic memory. </em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>The bell rings, and he walks up to the chalkboard.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Alright, everyone. I’m Mr. Reyes. Welcome to algebra two. We’re going to start off with a review of trigonometry.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>Here we go,</em> she thinks. <em>High school.</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Thirteen Years Nineteen Days.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s a Friday night. Lexie was going to go out with her friends and celebrate the end of the first week of school, but instead, she’s at home, sitting in her room and trying to figure out how to make noise come out of a trombone. </p><p> </p><p>Molly walks in and flops down on her bed. “No offense, but you could use a little more practice.”</p><p> </p><p>“I know.” Lexie’s on the verge of tears. “I should not have taken beginner band.” </p><p> </p><p>“You’ll figure it out. You’re Lexie. You can do anything.”</p><p> </p><p>“Except this, apparently.” The older sister throws down her trombone and sighs. “This is…”</p><p> </p><p>“Bullshit?”</p><p> </p><p>Molly swearing makes Lexie laugh out loud. “Yeah. Bullshit.”</p><p> </p><p>“In all seriousness though. I’m going to tell mom and dad that you’re saying negative things about yourself. And then they’ll be in here telling you to think positive thoughts.”</p><p> </p><p>“Please don’t.”</p><p> </p><p>“Then try again!”</p><p> </p><p>Lexie picks up the instrument.</p><p> </p><p>Her first-ever note is something between a B sharp and a C. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Thirteen Years One Month Two Days.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Her place, she realizes, is somewhere between student council on Mondays, cheerleading on Tuesdays and Thursdays, band every other morning, debate club on Wednesdays, and mathletes Friday at lunch. </p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t matter that she kind of sucks at trombone, or that the next youngest person in her algebra class is fifteen, or that she can remember who attended the Constitutional Convention but can’t remember to bring her lunch money on pizza day. No, none of that matters. None of that matters because she can do a back handspring, she’s good at public speaking, the student council president asked her to work on decorations for homecoming, she can find the x-intercepts of any quadratic function, and the two people she sits with in band class are really, really nice. </p><p> </p><p>Plus, according to her cheer team, she’s well-liked, and according to Mr. Reyes, she got ninety-nine percent on the first test of the year. </p><p> </p><p>So she thinks high school is shaping up to go just fine. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Thirteen Years Seven Months Fourteen Days.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lexie has her first kiss at a debate tournament.</p><p> </p><p>It happens between <em>'</em><em>Be it resolved that the United States should adopt a system of universal healthcare'</em> and <em>'Be it resolved that the use of the internet should be restricted to legal adults only.'</em> </p><p> </p><p>The boy had been eyeing her the whole night. He was from Eastside, the hosting school, and he’d introduced himself as Thomas. They’d flirted at the snack tables earlier in the evening, and then he’d been her opponent in the universal healthcare round.</p><p> </p><p>“You did a really great job,” she says to him as they walk out of the room for judging. They have five minutes to kill.</p><p> </p><p>“Same to you,” he responds with a quick grin. </p><p> </p><p>Looking at him makes her mouth dry.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m going to go get some water,” she says, gesturing down the hall to where the coolers are. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, I’m also feeling a little thirsty. Isn’t that funny.”</p><p> </p><p>And before she knows it, he’s pulled her outside. It’s windy, but she’s too flushed to notice.</p><p> </p><p>“Can I kiss you?”</p><p> </p><p>She looks up at him and nods. Her heartbeat is beating a thousand miles a minute.</p><p> </p><p>He has a follow-up question. “Do you want to kiss me?”</p><p> </p><p>“When I was little I really, really wanted a pony.”</p><p> </p><p>He laughs, slightly confused by her response. “Okay, then.”</p><p> </p><p>He leans in and puts his lips to hers. It takes her about ten seconds to actually come to terms with the fact that she’s out in the cold, kissing a private school boy.</p><p> </p><p>It’s okay, though, because they kiss for twenty.</p><p> </p><p>His lips are smooth and his hair is soft. She likes the way being this close to him feels, and she’s disappointed when he pulls away from her.</p><p> </p><p>Thomas takes her hand and rolls up the sleeve of her blouse. He grabs a pen out of his jacket pocket and writes his phone number on her arm. “Call me?” He asks her, smiling with his teeth. </p><p> </p><p>Lexie nods. “We should get back,” she notifies him. Being late to get the results from their round would be mortifying, especially considering they were just kissing outside the school when they were supposed to be discussing their debate.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah, we should.”</p><p> </p><p>When they walk in the door, he playfully hits her with his elbow. “Don’t be surprised when you see that I did better than you, though.” </p><p> </p><p>She scoffs, taking fake offense. “Don’t be surprised when <em>you</em> see that I did better than <em>you</em>!”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Thirteen Years Seven Months Thirty Days.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lexie’s been convinced to perform at one of Roosevelt High School’s famous* once a month, Thursday night coffee houses. She’s typically resigned herself to putting up flyers and telling her classmates to <em>come on out and support their peers</em>, in true student council fashion. But tonight a performer has backed out at the last minute and the club president practically begged her to do something in their place.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Right now she’s regretting agreeing, because the act she’s replacing is the next one on the program.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her friend Ashley is the emcee, and her bright smile becomes even wider when she sees that Lexie is next. “Alright, everybody!” She announces, accompanied by some mild giggling. “Coming up next we have Alexandra Grey who is going to be… I don’t know. I think she’s singing something. Anyways… everybody give it up for my good friend Lex!”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lexie digs her nails into her palms and walks towards the stage. She praises the god of high school academics when she gets up the three stairs without tripping. Ashley hands her the microphone and Lexie fakes a grin. “Hi,” she greets the audience. “I’m Lexie. And I’m going to be singing a cover of ‘Wannabe’ by the Spice Girls. It’s also gonna be a cappella because I found out I was doing this about two hours ago and I didn’t have time to learn an instrument or anything. So, here we go! I’m channeling my inner Baby Spice.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Everyone cheers.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>They cheer.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ashley gives a laugh and starts humming the instrumental from the side of the stage.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>This is really happening.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“If you want my future, forget my past.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>And the crowd goes wild!</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Thirteen Years Eight Months Four Days.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lexie has been hogging the phone line for weeks now. The three other members of her household have been doing their best to be understanding, but the fuse of their patience is running short.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Molly stands in her big sister's doorway, arms crossed. "Lexie. Get off the phone. I want to go on AOL."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The older Grey covers the phone and whisper-shouts. "I'll be five minutes."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Well, hurry up!"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"You yapping at me isn't going to free up the internet any quicker, ya know."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Molly slams the door.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Thomas is laughing on the other end of the line. "Sounds like you and your sister get along just gangbusters."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lexie fidgets with the green-and-gold friendship bracelet on her wrist. "We do, actually. She's just in seventh grade, so she's a natural yeller. It's not personal."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The next person at the door is Susan. She knocks once, twice, three times before she calls out to her daughter with obvious exasperation. "Excuse me, Miss Grey. Your sister is right. She may be moody, but she's right."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lexie whispers into the receiver. "Okay. Maybe I've been spending a little too much time on the phone for my family's liking. Not that I regret it."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Hang up. I'm not going to get you grounded before our big outing this weekend."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Oh, yeah. Pike Place isn't ready for us."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"It's truly not."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Thomas sits with her for a few seconds, and they listen to each other breathe on the other end of the line until Susan interrupts.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"I'm about ten seconds away from coming in there."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Okay, bye!"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Thirteen Years Ten Months Twenty-Four Days.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"I can't believe that the Northwest is getting their scores last in my <em>freshman</em> year. I'm going insane. Like, clinically insane. If that letter doesn't come in the mail today I might just jump out the window."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ashley is sitting in the blow-up chair in the corner of Lexie's room. She's been listening to her ramble for about forty-five minutes now, and she's starting to get a little frazzled, too. "You live in a two-story house," Ashley reminds her friend. "Jumping out the window will just give you a broken ankle and probably make you miss homecoming this year."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Yeah, yeah, okay. I won't jump."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"What AP classes did you take this year, again? I'm only asking because you totally didn't talk about it enough. Like, you definitely didn't say 'APUSH is going to make me off myself' or 'I fucking hate AP Physics' every single day at lunch for the entire year or anything."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lexie rolls her eyes at the mockery. "Shut up. I'm stressed."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>That's when Susan calls from the bottom of the stairs. "Mail's here!"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lexie almost tramples her sister as they both run to the front door. (Molly is waiting for her Josefina doll to add to her American Girl collection, which is an event of equal prominence in her eyes). There's a little collision, but no ankles are harmed in the process.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ashley gets down the stairs at her own, safer pace as Molly is breaking into her box with scissors and Lexie is ripping open her envelope from the College Board.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Okay," Lexie's eyes scan for scores as she pulls out the letter. "AP US History... four! Four is good! I definitely didn't study as much as I should have, so four is really good, actually. And Physics... five! Oh my God! I got a five!"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ashley does a little cheerleader bounce. "Five! That's the best, right? A five?"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Yeah, that's the best!"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Yay!"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Molly's gotten the doll out of her box and holds her up. "And Josefina is in mint condition!"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The three girls share a look of relief. Lexie has her scores, Molly has her doll, and Ashley doesn't have to listen to her friend freak out about tests in July anymore. They all give another, synchronized, "Yay!"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Fourteen Years One Month Twenty-Three Days.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lexie and her group of friends have recently discovered the joys of doing things drunk. Their top three events are the Operation board game, watching <em>South Park</em>, and playing baseball. She's found the American pastime is much more fun with a pint of her dad's Dewars, and that her tipsy throwing arm is surprisingly much better than her sober one.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She's a good pitcher, so that's what she does.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Missy is catcher.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jenni is first base, Nicole is second, and Monique is third.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hannah is shortstop.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Mallory is left field.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There are eight of them with nine positions, so Ashley has to do the work of left and center field. This isn't a problem for her. If Mallory were to suddenly drop dead from too many Smirnoff Ices and Marlboro Lights, Jennifer would have enough energy to take on the right field, too.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They like to think they play lots of really high-quality baseball, but in reality, they usually just throw splitters at each other and swing around bats and squeal like a group of, well, cheerleaders.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"We should form a team!" Lexie shouts when Mallory finally hits a ball.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Nicole lets out a sound that's something between a groan and a screech. "We should absolutely not form a team. We are terrible. We suck. We suck balls."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jennifer is laying on the ground, cradling her mickey of Fireball and rolling back and forth. "I think that we're <em>great</em>. I vote for the team. We can cheer for ourselves and everything."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hannah laughs. "Who are we even going to play with our shitty team of drunk girls?"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jenni pipes up again. "Boys! We should play boys. We should play some hot, sexy boys. I need some hot, sexy boys in my life. Roosevelt is lacking. I mean, R-I-D-E-R-S and everything, but they're lacking, for the most part."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Missy goes and sits beside Jennifer. "We should play Lexie's hot, sexy boyfriend and his prep school friends," she suggests. "I bet they're hot and sexy, too. Also Lexie, please don't freak out on me. I'm not actually saying your boyfriend is hot and sexy. I mean, he is. But, I mean..."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Missy. It's... not that deep. I get what you mean."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jenni is shouting from her spot in the grass. "Your boyfriend is that deep. In you."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lexie walks closer to her friend and gives her a light kick in the side. "Jennifer Marie Bradley-Shapiro. You are drunk as a skunk."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Monique giggles and comes over to join Lexie in her nudging of Jenni. "We're all drunk. And tired. Any chance we're ready to go back to Missy's house?"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Missy raises her hand. "I'm ready to go back to Missy's house."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Monique gestures and the girls flood towards the exit of the baseball diamond. "You know who's a hot, sexy boy?" She asks, looking at their host. "Missy's brother."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Missy raises the bat she's holding. "See this weapon? I'm going to beat you with it."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Come on. Ashley, you saw him at homecoming, right? <em>Hot</em>."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Fourteen Years Three Months Twenty Days.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lexie wakes up to the sound of a glass breaking downstairs.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Oh, my God! You can't just... throw a wine glass into the sink!"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Shit, sorry!"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Shh... the girls have school in the morning."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She opens the door just enough to sneak out, and creeps over to the staircase. Looking down, she sees her parents in the kitchen. They're dancing.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em>God Only Knows</em> is playing on the stereo. Her father is singing, off-key and off-beat.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"<em>If you should ever leave me, oh life would still go on and beat me...</em>"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Susan laughs. "Those aren't the words."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Oh, I never know the words to anything. You know that by now," Thatcher responds, stroking his wife's cheek.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"You really don't. It's endearing, though."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her mom puts her head on her dad's chest.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"I love you."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He kisses her forehead. "I love you, too."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Fourteen Years Ten Months Fifteen Days.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lexie's gotten used to spending summers in the backseat of the Grey family minivan. She's not the biggest fan of car trips (having two educators for parents means a teachable moment every three miles, and she's really, really tired of all the Billy Joel by now), but she brings her Etch-a-Sketch and a pack of batteries for her Walkman and almost enjoys it because the destination is so worth it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Every second year in July the entire Connelly family drives from wherever USA to South Carolina. Her dad's sister usually comes from Boston, too. They all rent a cabin on Lake Murray and get in their quality time. It's three weeks of sweet tea and sneaking beers with her cousins (though that's a relatively new development) and jumping off docks in the state she was named after. She loves it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The thing she loves less, however, is when her dad thinks he doesn't need maps.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Normally someone should understand a route after taking it this many times, Lexie thinks, but of course, her dad of all people can't. The three Grey girls assume everything is fine - he's just taking a different path - until Lexie notices that according to the map, they're on the 35 in Oklahoma, which they <em>definitely</em> shouldn't be.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Um, dad?"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Yeah pumpkin?"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"...why are we in Oklahoma?"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He pulls over to the shoulder of the highway and takes the map from his daughter, who bites her lip to keep from giggling.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Oh, shit."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her mother gives her father a playful smack on the shoulder. "Don't swear, Thatcher!"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lexie and Molly look at each other. Now they're both restraining laughter.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Well," he sighs, flipping the map upside down as if that will magically take them somewhere more practical. "I guess we're going to have to find a hotel somewhere around here. Maybe tomorrow we can take a detour and see Honey Springs."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Susan is a fan of this idea. "That would be great!"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lexie sighs and pulls out another few batteries.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Fifteen Years Twenty Days.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"It's so exciting that Hannah is student council president!" Lexie says, taking her seat at their first club meeting of the year.</p><p> </p><p>Nicole nods in agreement, pulling out her notebook. (Since the beginning of freshman year, she's been writing down every idea the group has had. She may not have a photographic memory, but she enjoys being thorough). "I know. And she's a cheerleader! Who says we're ditzy? And next year it's gonna be you!"</p><p> </p><p>Lexie pauses. "It's gonna be me?"</p><p> </p><p>"Yep. Every single 'super good' idea in this notebook has been yours."</p><p> </p><p>"It has not."</p><p> </p><p>"Moving pep rallies to the fifth period to increase attendance. You. Putting pyjama day on Mondays during winter spirit week. You. Pumpkin carving contest. You. Those little care packages for teacher's appreciation week. You."</p><p> </p><p>"I'm flattered, but..."</p><p> </p><p>"Shut up. You know I'm right, little miss 'I want to go to Stanford."</p><p> </p><p>"Not to be that person, but I actually want to go to Harvard," Lexie corrects her friend through a mouthful of celery.</p><p> </p><p>Nicole playfully rolls her eyes and steals some veggies out of the lunch box on the desk. "You're super fucking annoying, have I ever told you that?"</p><p> </p><p>Hannah walks into the room and stands at the front. "Hello, Roosevelt!" She starts, with a big grin on her face.</p><p> </p><p>Lexie and Nicole stand up and clap.</p>
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